Hello, all. Just to let you know, there will be content to come. There has been and will still be some housekeeping going on.

In hopes of keeping the few of you around, I’m excited to tell you that when I do return I’ll be writing up my trip to Redding to make sausage with my family. I had a blast being elbow-deep in pork butt for two days straight!

M-to-da-A is a terrible co-host; she’ll heedlessly talk over her guests’ solicited anecdotes or answer her own damn question. I’ve seen her interrupt a Rhode Island chief justice, her local butcher and Sara Moulton. I don’t remember how she treated future-adopted-grandfather, Jacques Pepin, but perhaps she too was stunned into silence as he guilelessly garnished a lovely scallop dish with Doritos. Bless.

If you’ve ever seen her show, you’ve seen that A) it’s sponsored by the National Italian American Foundation and B) she guest-hosted an episode with some tall man who’s shown warbling Dino – badly – in a wee clip during the opening credits.

That man is Ken Ciongoli. I do not like that man. Why?

Because fora first generation Italian-American, and the chairman of the NIAF, he is racial toward us Wops. Not once but twice during his episode does he say something to Mary Ann about “you people” – making pasta in X way or sauce in Y way, I can’t recall and it doesn’t matter. “YOU PEOPLE”?? Jesus, are we on Ellis Island circa 1850?

So shenanigans on cadaverous, bowl cut’d Ken, for being such a self-loathing Dago.

And additional shenanigans on them for using no egg wash – not even a daub of water – to seal their agnolotti. No way those didn’t disintegrate instantly in boiling water.

UPDATE: my timing sucks; according to Mme. Esposito’s blog Dr. Ciongoli passed away last week and now I feel a little like an asshole.

In memoriam, I will give this to the deceased doctor: he did run his finger along the inside of each eggshell so as to scoop out every last iota of albumin. Frugality: the hallmark of any Italian-American worth his salt (which he likely had to harvest himself, having been put to work in the mines with a work permit his own father fudged his age on. Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything. Ahem.)

I still say you gotta seal your agnolotti, though. No way that fork-crimping is cutting it.